Colors of Chaos

CLXXIII

CERRYL LOOKED AT the weaver. The man’s lined face was haggard, and two children looked up from the corner beyond the floor loom. Despite the open shutters, little breeze flowed into the hot room.

“I’ve come to pay a debt,” the mage said.

“I do not recall, ser.” The man kept his eyes downcast, away from the mage’s whites and away from the golden amulet that hung around Cerryl’s neck.

“Are you the consort of Pattera?” asked Cerryl gently.

“She is dead, honored ser.”

“I had heard.” Cerryl extended the leather purse. “Once, when we were children,” he lied, “she gave me what coin she had, and those coins made all the difference. I’ve been away, and I would that I could have repaid her. These are for her children.”

The man looked up, warily, not taking the purse.

“I have not seen her in years,” said Cerryl, setting the purse on the edge of the worktable, “but a White mage must pay his debts, for better or worse. I would that I could have repaid this debt earlier. Much earlier.” And in person…

“Who might you be, honored ser?” asked the weaver, his voice barely audible.

“My name is Cerryl. I was once an apprentice to Tellis the scrivener, when Pattera and her sister lived off the Square of the Artisans.”

“You are among the mighty…”

“And I bother to repay a debt?” Cerryl shook his head. “This acknowledges the debt. I owed Pattera that debt, and that can never be repaid.” He paused, studying the single hanging on the wall, a small rug of red and green. “Did you do that?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Could you do one in white, purple, and some shades of blue and maroon? With the same type of design?”

“I could, ser.”

“How much?”

“I could not charge a high mage…”

“You cannot afford not to charge one.” Cerryl gave a short laugh. “What would you get for that one?”

“Two silvers, ser.”

Cerryl could sense the truth of the answer. “Fine.” He fumbled in his belt wallet before extracting a gold and extending it. “I would like a hanging like the one on the wall, with the finest wool you can obtain here in Fairhaven, in purple, maroon, white, and blue. The most striking color should be the purple.”

The weaver swallowed.

“It is to repay in small part another debt.” The High Wizard nodded. “In three eight-days?”

“Yes, ser…Your Mightiness. It will be ready. Yes, ser.”

“Thank you.” You still have to find a way to repay the debt to Brental and Dylert…somehow. After a nod, Cerryl walked out to the waiting lancers, his eyes and senses scanning the area. Will you ever be able to walk or ride the streets of Fairhaven openly without a guard?

He swallowed, wishing he had been able to find Pattera earlier, wishing…“What use is wishing?”

“Ser?” asked the lancer subofficer who held the reins to Cerryl’s mount.

“Nothing. Just the musings of a mage.” One who continues to find that not all dreams are quite what he dreamed they would be.